7 Jan 2011

Our New Year's trip to Las Vegas was all kinds of giddy fun - but we predictably did not come home millionaires. I could pretend we did, but then this blog would look like the last season of Roseanne, and we all know how crappy that was.

Instead, I had a lineup of work waiting for me, including a meeting with a client on Bay Street (Canada's version of Wall Street). I bring this detail up, only because in the humiliation I'm about to relay, you'll gain a greater understanding for the environment I was in - one of suits and money and people who undoubtedly think they are better than me.

Upon returning from vacation, the laundry situation in our home was looking grim - which resulted in me opening up a new pack of pantyhose to wear for the meeting. This was a pair that I had received in a gift bag at some random event - so they weren't my usual, trusted brand of super control-top sausage casings. In fact, this style of pantyhose bragged about being totally opposite to my usuals - these were seamless. I put them on, they fit and off I went to walk to the meeting.

MISTAKE.

As I now realize, seamless means zero control. Seamless means no holdy-uppy elastic. Seamless means disaster. As I was heading toward the office, I could feel the sickening sensation of pantyhose shimmying down my body. I grabbed hold of the southbound waistband (through my dress) just before the hose could slide over the hump of my bum. I had to get myself to a washroom - stat. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic - taking tiny quick steps, keeping my body as stiff as possible, creepily smiling to fake to the world that everything was alright, while tightfistedly clutching my dress at the hip. I probably looked like Pee Wee Herman on the verge of drawing a gun.

Once in the restaurant bathroom, I yanked the hose up as high as they would go. I contemplated removing them all together but black hose with the dress sort of pulled the outfit together - plus my legs were in need of a trim shave and it was below zero, so walking around bare-legged would be completely bizarre and far too casual a look for this meeting.

The hose miraculously stayed up as I got to the client's office. He suggested we continue the meeting at a nearby coffee spot - so off we went again. Slight clutching was necessary, but I thankfully made it there intact.

Meeting complete, I walked with my client back toward his office as we chatted about a few last minute details of the project. And then it happened ... my pantyhose started sprinting down my body as if it was a fugitive and my ankles were the Mexican border. I tried to discreetly catch the waistband but missed and couldn't do anything but keep walking with my client and pray that the downward shuffling would stop. I could feel that the pantyhose had made its way past my butt and was now truckin' down my thighs. I started sweating and locked my knees together as we walked. I have absolutely no idea what my client said during those few steps because all that was going through my head was, "Please, please, please, please let this not be happening to me!!!" I pressed my arm against my body, hoping to clamp the tights while putting my purse in front of me, dangling it at the level of my dress's hemline to disguise the possible emergence of my hose. The wind blew a little and I could feel the cold flash of air on my previously hosed thighs. Nooooooo! I could feel the pantyhose starting to bunch just above my knees. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.

This is Bay Street, the scene of the crime.
Image Source: ElliDavis.com

"Well, here's my stop, looking forward to working with you on this!" my client said. We shook hands and he walked into the building. It didn't seem like he had noticed my crazed, sweaty disposition or the pantyhose - although it's for certain that other people did. When my client was out of view, I moved my purse aside and looked down to survey the damage. My pantyhose has fallen to the bottom of my knees. My dress length? Just above the knee. There, on the busy sidewalk in the financial district among all the suits and money and decision makers, I was standing there with my hoses's gusset in plain view (that's a random pic from the net - it's not of me). If you had been walking or standing behind me where my purse could do no hiding, you surely saw all this and wondered if I was an idiot, really eager to use the washroom or a pervert.

Horrified and yet relieved to have not been literally caught with my pants down by the client, I dashed toward a nearby building column for a bit of shelter (although not much - I was still very much in plain sight of the world), tossed off my shoes, tore off my pantyhose and stuffed them into my purse. It's not everyday that a woman starts stripping on the sidewalk, so, yes, people were looking, no, I didn't give a damn, and no, I will never wear seamless panythose ever again. They are so effing dead to me.

"Uh, Jen?" a voice said.

I almost vomited from shock and embarrassment.

It wasn't the client whom I had just been with, but someone else I had met in a business setting the month before. As my luck would have it, as I turned to face him, I still hadn't yet put my shoes back on. Nothing says HIRE ME, I'M A PROFESSIONAL like taking off your undergarments and standing around barefoot, publicly, downtown, in the winter.

"Oh, hi!" I said, as if nothing completely insane was happening.

"Umm ...Do you need some help?" he asked, now obviously looking at my feet.

"Oh, I, uh, just had something in my shoe," I said, red-faced. He had clearly seen me rip my hose off - something that isn't exactly the standard thing to do when one claims to be getting a pebble out of her shoe. And even if he hadn't seen me tear off my tights - and he had - what's the explanation for having BOTH shoes off? I believe the answer is this: She's crazy.

"Oh ... ok, then. Uh, Happy New Year," he said and then went on his way.

"Sure thing, same to you!" I said as I put on my shoes and stuffed a dangling leg of the pantyhose deep into my purse.

Cringe x 10000000000. Just a wild guess, but I'm pretty sure that if that guy requires writing and marketing services, he won't be calling me up. In fact, he's probably warning people about me now. UUUUGGGGHHHHH.

You should have taken off your pantyhose once you felt them starting to slide down! The seamless pantyhose are not to blame. I've worn seamless pantyhose numerous times and never had the problem. It was probably a wrong size. But it was a funny episode and I am glad that you shared it with us. Thanks!You are awesome!

Yes, the only thing that gets me through those horrifying moments is the thought that I can at least blog about it later and laugh at myself (with others). A sense of humour is my best weapon of survival. Har.

I have not laughed this hard in ages. I am sitting here, literally with tears streaming down my cheeks. I mean, gasping-for-air, side-aching laughter. This was free therapy, so THANK YOU!

I think one reason it made me laugh so hard is because it's totally something that would happen to my aunt (affectionately referred to as "Lady Di"). She's the one who got locked in a public bathroom stall moments before the train left the station and had to CRAWL out, only to discover MUCH LATER that her skirt was TUCKED INTO HER PANTYHOSE. She's got many stories like this. So yours reminded me of hers and it was so good to laugh!

It's a pity your clients weren't women, because you could have bonded like crazy over that moment, because we've all been there. Luckily for me, I had some safety pins in my bag and was able to nip into a ladies room to pin my pantyhose to my skirt waistband before I went into a job interview once!

This almost happened to me last summer! I bought a new pair of seamless panties and they got bigger the longer I wore them. Each time I got up from my desk to go to the loo, I almost lost them on the walk there. It was so awful.

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My name is Jen and I look like that picture at all times. I enjoy appetizers as entrees, fountains choreographed to music and television shows intended for teenage girls. Oh - and I really dislike it when people spell it "Jenn"; it's practically a phobia.